


Distance

by redscout



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 03:46:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10913664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: Simmons doesn't realize just how much he misses Grif.





	Distance

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this 4 my friend who suggested they all have some form of skype they can video chat with and then i got angsty abt grimmons after that last ep so here u go. set season 15 post episode 7 sorry if any of this Spoils

Simmons didn't want to admit he was waiting. That he had been waiting since the moment the ship took off. Sure, he was anxious, but he kept himself calm; Grif didn't mean what he'd said. He would call. He always did.

Sometimes it was for half an hour sometime during the middle of the day while they were separated and doing different things to pass the time freely, and Simmons was always silently glad Grif still had the absent thought to check in on him. He was a worrywart, but Simmons would never tell him that to his face. Sometimes it was before bed and it went on for hours at a time, and they were a room away from each other but it felt like miles, the hurt in their voices and the flush on their cheeks. And sometimes Grif thought it was funny when they were ten feet away from the other and he called anyway, as if they were farther apart and the check-up was something more meaningful. Maybe Simmons thought it was funny, too.

But they weren't ten feet away now. Or a room apart, or across the island. It had been six days and he was still staring at the empty visor of his helmet on the dull cabinet by his bed, waiting for a notification. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he didn't care anymore. Simmons rolls over in his bed and flicks the little lamp off, plunged into darkness. He was probably too tired to talk, anyway. 

\- - -

It's the muted but loud, familiar sound and a blue glow filling the darkness of his room that wakes him from a noiseless dream he won't remember the gist of in two minutes. He sits straight up and rubs his eyes, leaning over absently to grab his out-of-armor glasses. The incoming call tone continues to play and it takes a full thirty seconds for him to process it-- _Grif was calling._ He scrambles to finally hit the holographic answer button on the projection once he can see, and the five seconds for the call to go through feels like an eternity. And then he sees him.

Grif looks more tired than he's willing to tell him to his face, and almost shocked, a mutual feeling. It's silent for all of two seconds before Simmons registers what time it is and how physically exhausted he is, and he gains his bearings enough to whisper.

"Grif? What are you doing?" His friend's face perks up when he says his name, like he was periodically zoned out, and Simmons' heart jumps. No, he knew he was zoned out. He knew Grif.

"Uh, yeah, hey. How are you doing?" That's all he says, and Simmons eyebrows furrow.

"What?"

"I said how are you doing, Simmons," Grif drawls, his voice dragging sarcastically. " _Keep up._ "

"I'm... Grif, it's _three in the morning!_ "

"I know. I was wondering if you were sleeping well," he admits quietly, glancing off the side of the screen, and Simmons' expression softens.

"Well... obviously not, idiot," he retorts, and can't help the grin that graces his features when he adds, "we're talking."

"Okay, well, you know what I meant!" Grif accuses, but he's smiling too, and there's a little spark of energy in his eyes that Simmons can detect even through the projection. It's silent for a minute once more while Simmons debates whether or not to answer seriously, but he's too distracted by looking his friend in the face-- he's _seeing_ him again, god, he _missed_ him-- to respond first, so Grif breaks the reticence.

"Uh, how've-how've things been?" he questions quietly, his smile fading. He looks tired again, and guilt seeps into Simmons' chest.

"Umm... bad. Pretty bad." He sighs into his words and grabs his helmet, turning so he can lay down on his stomach and still video call. That probably wasn't the whole truth, but he was getting worn out. He'd forgotten how much of a pain the Blues could be sometimes. "Caboose has barely left me alone the whole time we've been up here, and Tucker's yelling at everybody like he owns the place, it's _annoying._ "

"Ugh, yeah, no thanks," Grif chuckles, and Simmons smiles again, laying his head down.

"Part of me wishes I'd stayed," he adds quietly. "But, it's for Church, I guess." And his face drops to neutral again out of anxiety when he notices Grif stiffen in the slightest.

"Yeah," is all he answers with, and Simmons fumbles to keep the conversation going.

"Uh, are you okay? I mean, have things been okay for you? How's... the moon," he tries, probably overenthusiastically, but it doesn't matter; he's not going to botch this call. Grif sighs.

"Um, it's been... good." His eyebrows furrow, and Simmons is analyzing like crazy, trying to decipher his body language. "Real quiet. Lots of time to nap, free space to roam around, nobody to stop me doing stupid shit... I don't know. Good."

"Yeah?" Grif still looks frustrated, eyes not meeting Simmons', and the maroon trooper looks on in anxiety.

"S... Simmons, why didn't you... say anything?" And it takes hearing that phrase, hearing the masked hurt in his voice, to know that this was going to be another one of _those_ calls. Lightyears away, an enternity apart. Unable to help.

"...I couldn't." His voice breaks, and the flush of shame creeps into his cheeks like a plague.

"What do you mean you couldn't?"

"I couldn't do anything, Grif. I... I don't know. My body wouldn't let me move."

"Did you care?" he asks, more frantically, and Simmons nearly shouts.

"Of course I cared!" He settles, trying to keep himself from getting emotional. "I fucking miss you, you asshole. But I couldn't..."

"Nobody did anything," Grif interrupts, but his expression and tone have leveled out again, and that makes Simmons more afraid than he's been this entire call. "Church has died... how many times now? And they still chose him." His expression is grave, and Simmons swallows.

"Grif, I didn't--" 

"I don't want excuses, dude." Simmons shuts up. "I hope you're not going to plead I come back, 'cuz I'm not. I'm not putting up with a team that doesn't care about me anymore."

"I care."

"Do you?" Simmons isn't sure how to answer.

"...Yeah, I do."

"Simmons, no offense, but you're just as guilty as the rest of them. You didn't take me seriously, either."

"I wasn't expecting it!" he retorts, voice raising more than he was anticipating. "It's not every day your best friend says the words 'I don't like you,' or 'I quit you,' like, how was I supposed to respond to that, Grif!" It's silent for a while following that outburst, and both of them look miserable. Simmons chances an eye at the clock. 03:32.

"...I'm sorry," Grif finally says, his voice hushed and his eyes downcast. "I didn't mean it. Not... fully, anyway, I just..." he trails off, and Simmons stares him in the eyes, begging for him to _look up,_ if they would just _meet eyes,_ everything would be _fine--_ "I'm fed up, you know?" His voice cracks and he still won't look at Simmons; he feels like he might die. "It's been years and everything's still the same. Sarge has no respect for me, the freelancers don't take me seriously, Tucker called me 'selfish', for god's sake... My sister's probably dead and I'm not earning anything else by being here." Simmons is speechless, watching his friend's eyes glisten with the promise of tears. He'd only seen Grif cry once in the past, and it was one of the worst days of his life. "I just wanna go home."

"Grif," Simmons tries, but his tears are the first to fall. Grif seems to hear this, because he finally meets eyes with him, and then his emotions get the better of him, too.

"Dude," he starts, accusingly, a hand moving up instantly to rub his eyes behind his thick glasses. "Don't cry, y-you bitch, you're making me cry."

Simmons chuckles despite his worry, his prosthetic moving to wipe away a stream of tears. His face falls again, and he forces himself to whisper back, "I'm sorry. I'm s-sorry, Grif." They sit like that for a while, letting their feelings reign, but the tension in the air lifts again. Simmons really fucking wants to give him a hug.

"This sucks," Grif finally says, sniffing lightly. "I hate this moon. I don't wish I had gone, but... I wish I was there so I could smack some sense into you. Stupid." Simmons smiles again, and tries to wipe his tears away entirely.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"I can't stop crying." He tries to laugh, and buries his face in his hands to recover.

"Come _on_ , Simmons, it's fine! Everything's fine!" There's a smile in his friend's voice again that makes him look up.

"I don't know. I... think I needed this." He breathes deeply and slowly, regaining his composure, and Grif's expression softens.

"Uh, me too, I guess. Yeah." His energy looks like it's returned somewhat and Simmons feels calmer overall, even though he knows that was mostly the release of emotion. But he feels better, until he looks at the time.

"Holy shit it's 4 am."

"...Whoops." Grif grins. "Why don't we pick this up at a later time."

"Yeah? Wait, I have a suggestion-- _don't call me at 3 o' clock in the morning anymore!_ " Simmons snaps, but it's playful, and he's really glad that's how Grif takes it.

"Okay, okay, message received." The orange trooper waves him off, but his smile remains. "How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow works," Simmons responds, almost too quickly, too eager. He's supposed to be asleep, but now he's filled to the brim with energy and enthusiasm.

"Okay, cool. I'm not busy, so you call me." Grif shifts, laying on his back with his helmet supposedly on his stomach. "I'll talk to you later?"

"Yeah, good night. And you know, you should get some sleep too, Grif." They exchange smiles briefly before Grif hangs up, and Simmons reads into it more. God, he hopes he's sleeping.

He stares in the darkness for a while longer before he finally moves to put his helmet back on the nightstand, and he rolls over onto his back, eyes on the ceiling. It takes five minutes to realize, when he's pulling the covers over himself and closing his eyes, there's not an enternity between them anymore; he feels closer than ever.


End file.
